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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23711194">Twenty-Four Hour</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/courting_insanity/pseuds/you_guys_are_losers'>you_guys_are_losers (courting_insanity)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>5 Times, 5+1 Things, F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 09:55:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,212</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23711194</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/courting_insanity/pseuds/you_guys_are_losers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>(or 5 times peter visits mj off-duty +1 time he doesn't)</p><p>Delmar's Diner is the only place open all night long, so it's the perfect place to rest and refuel after a long patrol. </p><p>On a less relevant note, it's also the only place where the waitresses are as quick, sarcastic, and pretty as Michelle Jones.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Michelle Jones &amp; Peter Parker, Michelle Jones/Peter Parker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>141</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>194</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. One</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/spidermanhomecomeme/gifts">spidermanhomecomeme</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The first time Peter goes to Delmar’s, it’s serendipity.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There have been a string of burglaries in the area, but Peter hasn’t managed to catch the culprit yet. It’s the kind of thing that would be easy to manage if he still lived with May. College has changed things for Peter in a lot of great ways, but it’s been hard to be away from Queens. Columbia is only a half-hour away (even less when he swings), but it makes the commute for patrolling harder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The extra effort it takes to swing to Queens and back, plus the late nights and busy classes, takes a lot out of Peter. After a night of swinging, fighting, and creeping in the quiet, every inch of Peter's body screams for him to sleep. Knowing that he still has a half-hour swing home only intensifies the weariness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, rather than swinging home for the sleep he needs, Peter procrastinates returning at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At first, Peter rests on the top of a building with a good view until he can muster up the energy to return home. After a few nights, even that isn’t enough. Because, as tired as Peter is, he has an even greater need.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hunger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The only place that is open in the early hours of the morning is Delmar’s, a place Peter knows well. He patronized the 24-hour diner frequently when he lived here with May. Peter is well-acquainted with the good-natured man who runs the place during the day. Tonight, though, Peter sets the bell swinging at an hour when even Delmar is fast asleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stepping inside feels like home. The worn tiles are cool through the suit on Peter’s feet, and the artificial lighting creates a sense of an alternate reality. The dingy counter takes up a large part of the small restaurant. Tables and chairs are scattered around the room in clumps reminiscent of a child’s forgotten array of toy soldiers. Boots with leather seats line the edges of the diner, their cracked upholstery leaking spongey stuffing like burst sores.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing has changed, and the ill-kept state of the place is familiar to Peter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is only one customer at the diner at the moment. The old man seated at the counter doesn’t even look up as Peter enters, which is good all things considered. Other than the sound of some movement in the kitchen, the place seems empty. If Peter had thought to bring a change of clothes, he could have come in anonymously, but tonight he is too tired to care about risks. No one comes this late at night, anyway, and even so, he can always leave if anyone gets too curious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still… Peter chooses the booth that is so far tucked into the corner he almost misses it. It can’t hurt to be a bit careful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The seat seems to deflate under Peter like a punctured tire, and he leans back into the lumpy cushion with a little sigh of relief. His muscles are screaming after the night he’s had. Interrupting a car theft required Peter to take on the impact of the vehicle as it was leaving an alley. Additionally, he’s had to occupy several uncomfortable positions over the course of the night, and though he’s more than willing to do it, it feels nice to sit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The crackling of the light fixture is like the most soothing lullaby to Peter, who finds himself slumping forward to prop his chin on his fists. Sleep drags his eyelids down, and though Peter jerks up and out of its spell every so often, he doesn’t have enough willpower to end the cycle of nodding off and starting up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For future reference, it’s called caffeine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A thud echoes against the tabletop, sending Peter’s enhanced senses jerking awake. Peter bolts from sleep’s threshold to the lumpy seat. His muscles tense, including those in his arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter’s head slips off of his knuckles, slamming into the tabletop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah.” Peter winces as he raises his head, brushing his masked temple with his fingers. There is definitely going to be a bruise there. His eyes dart to the countertop, where he realizes that the sound that woke him was someone setting down coffee.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter blinks several times, clearing the sleep from his gaze before the mechanical eyes of his mask rise to the figure standing beside the booth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The girl appears to be roughly Peter’s age, though she is taller. Her brown eyes do not hold the things that most civilians’ do when they see him suited up. There is no awe, wonder, or uncertainty in her gaze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, all Peter can see is amusement to accompany the dry smirk on her lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I… What?” Peter stammers. His lips are heavy, and it feels like he is talking through lead. Peter struggles to get his mask half-lifted so that his mouth is free of the material.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The waitress raises an unimpressed eyebrow at him. He is starting to notice a bit more about her, now. She’s wearing a black dress to her knees that has gray trim. As uniforms go, it is simple. The way she stands in it implies she’s not the most comfortable in the dress. Her dark hair is pulled back into a ponytail, but several wisps have escaped. She brushes one of these away as she speaks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Drink the coffee,” she instructs. Peter glances down at the stained ceramic mug, and despite himself, he takes it into his fingers. The warmth is nice, though it is a bit too hot; even through the suit, Peter’s brain suggests that he set down the mug. That only causes him to grip harder, letting the discomfort sharpen his sleep-dulled brain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t ask for it.” Peter doesn’t know why he says it, and he takes a sip instead of asking himself why.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This girl’s gaze is more intense than most people’s. She doesn’t look away as he takes a sip of the too-hot drink, and she only speaks after he’s charred his throat by swallowing. “Sleep-deprived drivers are just as dangerous as drunk ones,” she replies. “And unless you’re planning on sleeping in the booth, I can’t let you out of here half-asleep. I don’t feel like finding out that you fell asleep mid-Tarzan and flattened yourself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter finds a sleepy smile pulling at his mouth. “Selfless,” he comments, taking a breath to cool his scorched tongue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nah. I just can’t risk them finding our coffee in your system during the autopsy. Then we’d have the FDA poking around, and I don’t like talking to people with clipboards.” She pauses, gaze becoming pensive. “Or people.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And yet here you are, talking to me.” Peter gives a thoughtful hum as he takes another sip, mechanical eyes flicking to the cup and then back to her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not a person. You’re a spider-mutant. I haven’t talked to one of those before, so I’m conducting research before I establish my opinion.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter nods as he sets the cup down with a sigh. “It’s a smart approach,” he agrees, leaning back in the seat. “Happy to be your baseline when it comes to mutants.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eh, I dunno about that. Mutations would explain some of the people who come through here at this time of night.” Peter laughs, shaking his head as his fingers wrap around the mug. The girl pauses, glancing at the cup then back at him. For a moment, her dark gaze roams his face, and Peter feels like she can somehow see him through the mask. Then she has moved on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her fingers tug a small notepad and pen from a pocket in her dress, and she glances at him. “So, are you gonna get anything?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter starts. “Oh, right.” He blinks a few times, and then the order rolls of his tongue. “A number five, please. The Cuban. And could it be smushed down real flat?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She scrawls down the order, not looking up at him as she speaks. “So you’ve been here, then. Out of the suit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter starts, the white eyes whirring as they widen. “I, uh-- I haven’t… What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t look at the menu,” she explains, sliding the pen back into her pocket. Her eyes return to him as she flips the notebook shut, and the corner of her lips quirks up. “Don’t worry. I won’t snitch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks,” Peter breathes, sitting back. “I appreciate it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, it could ruin you,” she agrees. “If the papers find out that you actually like the food from here, I mean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter finds a tired laugh leaving him again. Something about this strange, sardonic waitress seems to wake him up. It isn’t how he planned to end his patrol, but it’s not an unpleasant way to do so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um, I’m Spider-Man,” he introduces himself. “Do you have- I mean, what’s your name?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I don’t know yours, so that seems like an unfair trade,” the girl muses, thoughtful. “Maybe I should tell you a made-up name so it’s even.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before Peter can reply, the man at the counter warbles, “Michelle!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right.” She straightens, letting out a breath. “Gotta go. I’ll have that Cuban out in a minute.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter doesn’t know why he feels disappointed as she turns to walk away. Before she can leave, the words drop from his lips. “Bye, Michelle.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pauses, and for a minute Peter thinks he’s overstepped. She still doesn’t turn away, but after a beat of silence, she speaks. “You can call me MJ.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Two</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The second time Peter goes to Delmar’s, it’s because it’s practical.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The burglar Peter is chasing strikes again, and this time it is at a tech stop a block over from the diner. After he checks on the family upstairs, Peter leaves the shop frustrated and confused. Somehow, he feels like he is missing something. In the shop, before he woke up the family, he could have sworn he heard something… Faint. A heartbeat or the sound of an exhale. But a careful examination didn’t turn up anything, and so Peter is not just exhausted and hungry now. He is also fighting discouragement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter is too distracted with his frustration to try swinging home; it would be irresponsible. He needs to go somewhere to clear his head, somewhere close. Delmar’s is the most logical choice. It has nothing to do with the girl he met last Friday.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rather than examine the thought, Peter swings around the block to the diner on the corner. Peter lingers for a second on the corner before sending the tinny bell above the door jingling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The diner looks the same as it did last Friday, but this time MJ is behind the counter. She looks up as soon as he steps into the restaurant, but her gaze slides back to the woman sitting at a nearby table as Peter moves to his corner booth. He can hear the customer’s voice drifting across the diner, even from the booth. The woman is attempting to regale MJ with a story about her night at a telemarketing office. Peter can’t help his sympathetic amusement as he listens to the loud anecdote grow less and less interesting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He breathes out a sigh of relief for her ten minutes later when the woman finally leaves. A few minutes after the bell quiets, the curly-haired waitress approaches Peter’s booth from across the diner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” he greets her. “Sorry to interrupt such a stimulating conversation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>MJ pauses to contemplate whether she should keep on the waitress-face. Peter is informed of her decision by the way her face falls with a sigh of relief. “I have never said ‘mhmm’ so many times in forty-five minutes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter’s mechanical eyes widen innocently. “What? I liked hearing about the woman who thought her husband was cheating with the telemarketer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t mind it for the first thirty seconds.” MJ shakes her head, letting out a breath as she pulls out her notepad. “But the real-life version of that State Farm commercial isn’t as interesting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter watches as she flips through the little book of scribbles. As the used pages hang over the spirals of the notebook, Peter realizes something. Though he can see the indentation of writing through the thin paper, several of the pages that flip by look different. Once he notices them, it only takes a second moment for Peter to pick out sketched figures on the used pages.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At this point, Peter is too tired to restrain his curiosity. “You draw?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>MJ’s deep brown eyes widen as she looks up at him from the pad. For the first time, the waitress appears disarmed. It is an equalizing experience since he was the surprised one the last time he was here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>MJ swallows, glancing at the notebook then back at him with eyes the same color as the hot coffee that Delmar’s serves. Peter isn’t sure if he should expect an answer as she shifts from one foot to the other. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she exhales.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um, yeah, I do,” she admits, flipping back through the book to examine a few of the drawings. Her tone is absent as she scans the sketches with her eyes, familiarizing herself with the work of the past. “I like to sketch the people who come here. No one comes to a diner at three in the morning unless they’re experiencing some sort of crisis.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her eyes move to focus on him. Peter feels like he is being analyzed for stray smudges of graphite, like a sketch. “Or unless they’re chasing crises, in your case.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, I don’t chase very often. Most of the time, trouble finds me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That sounds like a ‘you’ problem.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter grins, watching her run her thumb along one of the earliest pages in the pad. “So, are you an art student?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>MJ looks up from the page, contemplating him. It almost feels like they are making an exchange. She is deciding how much to give him and what she can learn in return. Peter doesn’t mind it at all. It is logical and calculated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s honest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kind of,” she answers, choosing not to elaborate. “Do I get to ask questions?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can trade,” Peter suggests, gesturing to the seat across from him. She glances at the cracked, kelly green upholstery and then looks back to the empty diner. After a moment, she takes the seat, perching a bit too close of the edge for comfort.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you know Delmar?” she asks, tipping her head to the side. She doesn’t bother to hide that she is studying him, and Peter wonders if he should be telling her anything at all. Something about the intelligence in her eyes tells him that she is skilled at putting together pieces. If he gives her the right ones she might just figure him out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thought scares him, but it thrills him as well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everyone from around here does,” he answers, nodding. “So yes.” It’s his turn, so he looks at the notepad that she sets on the edge of the table. “How can you ‘kind of’ be an art student?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She runs her fingers along the corner of the table as she answers. The way they tap reminds Peter of how his leg always bounces when he’s thinking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m training to be a sketch artist.” Her dark eyes spark as she mentions it, and Peter can tell that it’s passion that has entered them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like, the person who draws faces for the police?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yep.” She smirks at Peter, allowing her shoulders to relax slightly. They must be tense after a long day of work… Peter knows his are. It’s hard to work out the kinks and aches that build up from standing all day. Peter hopes she has someone to rub out the tension in her muscles after working all night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wait… Unless it’s a partner. Why does Peter care if she has a partner?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That was two questions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes a second for Peter to reorient himself, shaking his head. Her face only becomes more amused as she watches him pull himself to the conversation at hand. “You asked two questions,” she repeats, crossing her arms. “That means I get to ask two.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Crap. I forgot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, you suck at this game.” She watches his face as he laughs, nodding after a moment. “It’s okay, though. I guess you have to be bad at a few things when you climb buildings.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m bad at more than a few things.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was being generous.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter grins, watching as she contemplates her next question. MJ fiddles with the gray trim on her uniform’s short sleeve as she thinks. “Why did you come here last week?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s Peter’s turn to think. There’s the obvious answer-- he is tired. Then there’s the more nuanced stuff. He thinks that she is looking for the more detailed answer; MJ doesn’t seem like she’s interested in the superficial, hence why his full suit doesn’t seem to bug her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Patrol was long,” he finally answers. “I’m tired by the end of it. And lately, I’ve had to commute to get to this part of the neighborhood. I didn’t feel like heading home half-asleep, and this place is always open. That’s kind of the appeal of Delmar’s, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>MJ nods with a hum, her eyes not leaving his own. “It’s a port for lone ships in the night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The smile on Peter’s lips now is a bit gentler, and it is his turn to study her. He likes the focus of her eyes, he decides. They seem a bit jarring in their sharpness, and every time he looks into them it feels like he’s waking up the way she did the first night. He likes the way that clouds roll across them like a brewing storm as she thinks. “That’s poetic.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks,” she replies. “And you’re not going to flatter me out of my second question, Spider-Man. Are you some sort of alien?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter shakes his head, glad she’s lobbed him an easier one to answer. “Nope, I’m from Earth. A mutant, like you said.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nice,” she hums, nodding. “Although now I can’t ask the fun questions about outer space, so you’re kind of disappointing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” Peter says with a shrug. “I am out of this world, but not literally.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She fixes him with an unimpressed stare as silence stretches between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I feel like I need to apologize again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, that was pretty awful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter offers her a crooked smile. “I had an agenda. Now I don’t have to waste a question asking whether you like puns.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only if they’re depressing. Or hilarious.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“See?” Peter presses, triumph in his voice. “I tricked you into answering a question I didn’t ask.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not tricking if it’s a lame question,” she points out, leaning back against the uneven seat. “What’s your actual question?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter considers asking more about her personal life, but his eyes travel to the notepad once more. He’s still curious about the drawings, so it’s better to focus there. “What’s the difference between being an art student and learning to be a sketch artist?” he wonders aloud as he looks back at her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>MJ’s eyes wander for a moment as she formulates her answer. “Well, sketch artists have to have training in anatomy and some odontology. It’s important to understand bone structure across genders, ethnicities, ages, and stuff. So it’s more of a specialty than some other types of art.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter leans forward as he listens, interested. “You need to know about their teeth?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s only after he asks the question that Peter realizes it wasn’t his turn. MJ doesn’t seem to care. They’ve made a transition from their game into a conversation, and Peter doesn’t mind it at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Michelle doesn’t seem to, either. “It’s important when you’re sketching profiles,” she explains, flipping open the notepad and moving it between them where Peter can see. “The way a person’s teeth and jaw are formed affects the structure of their cheeks and their nose. For instance, if someone I’m sketching for was attacked by someone with an underbite, that’s going to look different from someone who has a normal dental profile.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As an example, MJ sketches two side-views of a human face. Her pencil dances across the paper like an extension of her fingers, summoning figures out of the paper that is bumpy from the indentations of previous orders. Peter observes the twin profiles she has summoned. The first is fairly generic. At first, Peter can’t see how the two differ as she sketches the second.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The subtle difference becomes more and more obvious the more she shades and carves out a face. The lips lay differently over the bone beneath, and the cheekbones are shifted and less pronounced and elevated. She’s right; by the time both are done, they are two completely different people.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s incredible,” Peter breathes, glancing at MJ for permission before tugging the notepad towards him. He studies the two figures intently for a moment, touching one with a suit-clad finger as if he were caressing its cheekbone. “And you just… know when you need to do this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If the witness tells me that something about the face was different, or off-balance.” MJ’s voice is quiet and cool as she explains, but the rhythm of it holds an energy that speaks to passion and fervor for the topic. “If they say it reminded them of a bulldog or something, or if they describe their face as ‘pouting.’”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter stops tracing the figures for a moment, listening to her explanation of what she wants to do. He is reminded of the way she sketched the faces out of nowhere as she talks. Each word is filling her in as a person, highlighting her smudged shadows so that Peter can see her more clearly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The brain makes weird comparisons when it’s under a lot of stress. It’s a sketch artist’s job to take the tangled story and turn it into something recognizable on paper.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Peter looks up at her, his gaze immediately collides her own. She is looking at him the same way he was studying the notepad.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She catches her breath, and then her lips part as though she is about to say something. Before she can, the bell jingles. MJ hops to her feet immediately, fiddling with a loose curl to tuck it behind her ear. “Uh, I have to-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. Um, yeah, of course,” Peter says quickly, though he’s not sure why he’s vocalizing anything. It’s confusing, just as confusing as the cause of his quickening heartbeat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, do you-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their words tangle over each other, and Peter laughs uncomfortably. His hands rise as he feels a sudden urge to run them through his hair, at least before he realizes he’s still masked. That only makes his pulse race further.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, with MJ, he forgot about Spider-Man.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” he blurts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She blinks rapidly, pursing her lips before she finally answers. “Um, it’s okay.” Her words are rushed. “Do you want anything?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, right.” Peter pauses for a moment before he puts together his order. “Uh, a coffee would be great. And a number five, please, smushed down-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Real flat,” she finishes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter doesn’t know why he’s smiling, but something about the way she says it warms him from within. Maybe it’s the way that it tumbles from her lips like she’s always known it, or the little look of surprise on her face as she realizes it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s pretty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” he breathes. Peter’s voice sounds like he’s just come up for air, and he shakes his head. “Thanks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re welcome.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a minute, MJ remains where she is standing. Peter can practically hear the sound of her thinking from across the booth. Before he can comment on it, she turns and rushes to the counter, where she begins to speak to the bleary-eyed couple that has entered the diner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter has a hard time keeping the smile away for the rest of the time he is at the diner. It doesn’t matter that MJ barely has time to make a witty remark after dropping off his food and coffee, and it has nothing to do with his tiredness. Something about the exchange, about the intentionality with which she speaks to him and glances at him every so often from across the restaurant…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, something about it keeps the stupid, little grin there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That smile only fades when he begins to feel the clock coming for him. Peter has a nine A.M. class the next day, so he should get home. When he can finally put it off no longer, Peter grabs the cash that he keeps in one of the many secret pockets Tony installed in the suit and heads to the counter where MJ is handling the couple’s (apparently complex) order.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When she finally explains their receipt to them, the flustered girl moves behind the counter so that she can accept the money. She is tired; Peter can tell by the way that she doesn’t even look at the money he hands her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wow,” he comments. “Are you that trusting with all your customers?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re Spider-Man,” she deadpans, letting out a long breath as she looks at him. “If you short-changed me, it would be terrible PR.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve got me.” It’s probably a good thing she isn’t counting it, Peter decides. She might not accept the excessive tip that Peter included… But that’s a matter for later.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, good-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Miss?” One of the men looks at MJ impatiently from down the counter. “I’m sorry, but this can’t be right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>MJ takes a deep breath, exchanging a conspiratorial look with Peter before she turns to help them. Peter’s eyes flicker to the counter, where a slip of paper she had been holding has been left behind. “Wait, MJ-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter sighs as he hears her begin to sort the issue out with the pair. He glances at the scrap of paper, examining the dark print on it. He wants to make sure that this isn’t the receipt the couple is currently asking about.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A quick glance reveals that it’s his own receipt. Peter’s brow furrows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His thumb runs over a patch of the paper that is elevated, and then Peter puts two and two together. He peers at MJ, who is currently facing away from him as she manages the couple. Then, after a slight hesitation, Peter turns the receipt over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His own face stares back at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter’s eyes widen as he looks down at the sketch on the back of the receipt. The more he looks, the more in awe Peter becomes. A few of the details are wrong-- his hair is shaded to be light rather than brown, and the eye shape is a bit off. But the structure of his jaw, the way that his cheekbones flow into his nose, the length of his forehead and the proportions of everything…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s stunningly accurate, and she got it all through the mask.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a minute, Peter can’t breathe as he stares at the receipt, drinking in more. It is only once Peter hears MJ reply to the couple that he snaps out of it. Peter swallows as he sets the receipt back where he found it, face down. The bell jingles, and the door swings shut. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter is in the dark once again, and in every shadow he sees dark eyes studying him, learning his angles and lines better than he knows them himself.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Three</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The next time Peter goes to Delmar’s, it’s because he wants to. And the next time, and the next time, and the time after that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Delmar’s diner becomes a part of Peter’s patrol routine. Though his wallet protests it with fervor, Peter spends more and more of his spidering nights there. After a few weeks of it, it gets to the point that Peter begins to budget for it. He tells himself that it’s good for him. It’s a moment to breathe after patrol. He needs the time to decompress; Tony is always telling him he doesn’t rest enough. The food is important too, especially when he’s expended so much energy. In order for his scrapes and bruises to heal, Peter needs to be refueling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The most compelling reason to go to Delmar’s, however, is the dark-haired waitress with a wicked sense of humor. The more Peter goes, the less inclined he is to deny it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The corner booth becomes his retreat after a long night. MJ gets better and better at figuring out how to get her work done and getting out of long customer anecdotes. After the first week he comes, MJ doesn’t bother asking for his order. Most of the time it’s ready and waiting when Peter gets there: a smushed Cuban sandwich, a pot of steaming coffee, and some sort of sketch on a napkin or the back of the receipt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Often, the drawings are caricatures of the customers that MJ has learned to expect on a given night. They only become more amusing on the nights that she is proven right. Peter takes the scraps of paper back to his dorm, where he has begun to make a little collage of them above his desk. Ned seems to think that Peter has resorted to kleptomania to cope with the stress of Spider-Man and his computer science major. Really, it's so that Peter has something to look at before he collapses in bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Peter learns the rhythm of MJ’s night, she learns his. She begins to ask about the old lady whose door Peter checks every night, the one whose forgetfulness when it comes to the lock has caused her three home invasions. When she asks where he’s spent his time, Peter doesn’t feel like she is trying to connect his movements the way conspiracy sites or the police do. She is trying to outline his day in her mind, to sketch the bare bones to fill in his thoughts and feelings at the end of the day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She cares.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s still MJ when she’s caring, of course. She’s sardonic and clever, and she makes dry comments and smirks at him when she catches him off-guard. But she wants to understand him, and every time Peter remembers that, it drives away all the chill of the things he sees in the darkened alleyways of Queens.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes, though, the darkness manages to follow him inside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the bell jingles tonight, it is so aggressive that Peter at first thinks it has been broken. MJ starts from across the booth, and though she does not look to see who it is, familiarity flashes across her face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“MJ-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes?” she answers immediately. Peter wonders if he imagined the way her face fell. It looks just as it did a moment before when they were arguing over who had the more interesting night (somehow, even though Peter is the superhero, it always manages to be her).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought…” Peter isn’t sure how to explain the knee-jerk reaction he seems to have had. He shakes his head, and his mechanical eyes dart from her to the door. “Nevermind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, is anyone here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The gruff voice that echoes across the diner frosts MJ over. Peter knows her ‘waitress-face’ now. It’s the mask she puts on when she’s dealing with customers, the one that is calm and pleasant and unbothered. It’s the one that makes her less of a target for the frustration of exhausted loners.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a pale imitation of the real MJ, and Peter doesn’t like it very much.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll handle that,” MJ hums monotonously, standing and brushing her ponytail over her shoulder. “Be right back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Copy that,” Peter says, offering a playful, fake salute.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The corner of her lips quirks up, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She sets her shoulders and squares her jaw as she crosses the room, and Peter is reminded of a soldier suiting up for battle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Most of the time, Peter takes the time that MJ is talking to customers to enjoy the caffeine rush and the sandwich. Today, he completely ignores the food on the table. His eyes close as Peter listens with sharp ears to the interaction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man is drunk. His labored breathing and the stench of drink that Peter’s enhanced senses can pick up are enough to tell him that, but the slurred words certainly help.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I need the usual.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>MJ’s voice is all precision and punctuation where the newcomer’s is not. “Of course, Mr. Anderson. Coming right up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Better be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter’s fist clenches underneath the table as the man lets the words drop darkly and carelessly into the room. MJ is quiet, but Peter doesn’t miss her sharp intake of breath. “Of course, sir,” she murmurs, and Peter can hear the soft scratching of a pencil on paper. It’s not as firm as it normally is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Peter’s not mistaken, her hands are shaking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a moment’s pause as MJ sets the pencil down. Finally, after waiting for the man to say something, MJ speaks up again. “Would you like to sit down?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sit down?” The repetition is a shoddy one, as if the words are paint slapped on a canvas. “Are you… You tryin’ to tell me what I should do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course not.” Peter hears the movement of the paper in her clenched fist. “I just thought you’d be more comfortable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well stop.” Every word that the man says sends Peter’s skin tingling. “Thinking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>MJ is silent. Her “Yes, sir,” are the words of a girl picking her way across a minefield. Peter can hear her footsteps as she approaches the kitchen with the order.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s a… Good girl.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter’s nails dig into his skin as he clenches his fist. After a moment, he hears the whining of one of the counter’s stools as the man sits down. MJ’s footsteps grow louder as she approaches the booth again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter’s eyes open just in time to see her sliding into the seat across from him. For once, she does not look at him. Her eyes lock on the tabletop in front of them as she sets her hands in her lap. There is quiet, and Peter takes a breath to speak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t.” He shuts his mouth per her request, but Peter’s brow furrows as he watches her bring her hands out of her lap to set them on the table. “Please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” he murmurs. If she doesn’t want him to bring it up, he won’t. But Peter isn’t going to move away from the topic, either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>MJ lightly rubs her thumb and her forefinger together. After a moment of silence, she moves to trace her drawing callus instead. Peter watches her fingers repeat the movement until she speaks again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He comes in every so often.” The words start slow, and they stay quiet. But the more she talks, the quicker they come. “Like this, I mean. He’s loud and he’s obnoxious, but he never does anything. He just says things.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He shouldn’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One minute, MJ’s eyes aren’t on Peter’s. The next they are piercing his like daggers. Her gaze pins his like the legs of a dead spider to a corkboard, where it will be on display forever with its name on a card. Her stare crunches through segmented abdomen and joints, digging into flesh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can handle it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter doesn’t know why he keeps talking. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep or the fact that the caffeine suddenly has his hands shaking, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I trust you. But you shouldn’t have to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her eyes narrow, and the stare sharpens to a point fine enough to split spider’s silk. “Maybe that would matter if I’d asked your opinion.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her words fall like blows, and Peter’s mechanical eyes whir as he flinches. The man calls for MJ again before Peter can retaliate. “Where’s… I ordered food. Where’s my food?” His voice escalates in pitch, and MJ’s face flickers. For a minute, she darkens, and then she wipes herself clean of emotion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter hates the blankness of her stare as it fixes on him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>MJ turns, standing beside the booth and turning to face the counter. “It’s in the kitchen,” she explains. Her voice reminds Peter of an automaton’s. “I’ll bring it to you when it’s ready.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe…” The man tries to start the sentence, but his slowed brain takes a moment to catch up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe if you weren’t so b-busy you’d be a bit quicker.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s MJ’s turn to flinch. She recovers quickly, and her gaze empties until it is hollow. “It’ll be ready very soon, sir.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whenever you finish with what you’re doing back there,” the man sneers. Peter begins to turn to face him, but MJ’s eyes dart to his in an instant. There is a desperate fury in them that compels him not to turn. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was talking to another customer, sir. I’ll go ask Aaron how your food is coming.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>MJ has already begun to walk when the drunk man continues. “Talking, huh?” The derisive, suggestive note in his voice has Peter’s fists clenched so tight that he is seriously concerned that his nails might pierce the suit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well then by all means.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The stool screeches as the man stands, and Peter twists in his own seat to keep eyes on him. MJ lets out a sharp exhale as she glares at him, and then she fixes her gaze on the door so that she is not looking at anyone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wouldn’t want to get in the way of your conversation, if that’s what your pretty little mouth was doing.” The man’s face flames red, and his eyes are unfocused as he takes a wobbling step towards MJ. “But I’m a paying customer, too.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter is moving to stand in an instant, and MJ whirls on him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her eyes, which were so empty a moment ago, now hold everything. Rage, helplessness, humiliation… All these things and more spill out of her. Peter cannot think, cannot breathe, cannot look anywhere but her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He preferred the emptiness to the pain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sit. Down.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words send cracks splitting down the tension in the air, and Peter feels like he is free-falling. He stops moving, obeying her, but his eyes do not leave MJ as she draws in a breath, turning to the man. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have to go.” Her words shake slightly, but there is power in them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You little-” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aaron is in the kitchen right now,” MJ rattles off, fortifying herself with every word. “I have pepper spray in my pocket. If for some reason I can’t get to that in time, Aaron will hear you, and my friend in the corner booth will be here right away.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The labored breathing of the drunk customer is all that Peter can hear in the silence. It is heavy, though whether from anger or inebriation is unclear. Peter focuses on the rhythm of the man’s ragged breath rather than the voice in his head screaming at him to help her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Or, you can leave now, and I won’t call the cops. Your choice.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sounds like herself. There is no falsehood, no overconfident assumptions that they will get here on time or that Aaron will care enough to help. There is just MJ, just truth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The truth is enough. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter hears the stumbling footsteps, the jingle of the bell. Her exhale echoes thunderously across the silence, and Peter hangs on it. From beside the booth, Peter can see her shoulders slump. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>MJ does not look at Peter. Instead, she turns on her heel and darts to the back door. Peter can’t tell if her footsteps are rushed to flee or if they are simply that swift and purposeful. Before the door to the alleyway behind the diner shuts, Peter slips between it to join her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She is upon him before the door can shut. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t ask you!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>MJ’s eyes are bright now, which is at least an improvement from before. But now, in the orange fluorescent light, they are on fire. Peter flinches back from the heat, but he does not pull away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He was drunk.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I had it under control!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t doubt it, which is why I didn’t say anything.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You couldn’t stay in your damn seat-” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought he might hurt you, MJ!” Peter is shouting, too, and their voices echo and collide with one another as they bounce off the surrounding walls. “I didn’t butt in, but you can’t expect me to-” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To what, have some self-control and let me do my job?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your job isn’t to deal with-- with assholes like him!” Peter bursts. “The things he was saying-” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Weren’t true!” MJ spits the words from where she stands across from him, rooted to the pavement by her black tennis shoes. “They weren’t true, so why did you give a crap? I don’t need you leaping to defend my honor-” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That isn’t what I was-” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not one of the people you save!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>MJ’s eyes widen as soon as she starts saying it. Peter doesn’t respond, doesn’t retaliate. For a minute, the silence italicizes her words as they hang in the cold night air. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>MJ is shivering; Peter reaches for a jacket he doesn’t have to give to her. Her eyes follow the movement, and then they return to his. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m here because I want to be.” Her voice is quieter now, and Peter realizes it is shaking. “I need… There isn’t work for artists until they’ve graduated, and even then. I need this job.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>MJ’s eyes don’t drop as they lock on his like homing missiles. “I need this. It doesn’t matter what people like him say or do, I need this place to come back to. And it’s not just for me, I need it for-” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She purses her lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you know what it’s like, trying to pay for something like dementia?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter feels cold, heavy horror weighing down on his shoulders as she talks. The words spill out, and they are like all her others: they sketch a picture, a landscape of Michelle Jones. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This one is different from any of the others. The shadows are hungry, clawing in messy strokes that tear through the paper. The highlights are so bright that they hurt to look at, piercing through the dark like jagged teeth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There are a ton of meds, a million trials to research. There are care plans with diets, which is just great when your mom won’t eat anything other than Kix cereal and microwave broccoli. Then there are the homes, which are where people like that really need to go.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you pay for those. Even the bad ones cost a ton, the ones where you go and you find cigarette burns on the residents’ arms. So you have to pay and pay more just for someone to keep breathing. For them to have the care they need.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“MJ-” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So what he says doesn’t matter. It’s not true. It sucks less than the truth.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“MJ, I…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not one of your kittens stuck in a goddamn tree.” Her eyes are coals set into sockets as they bore into him. “I’m not another stop on your patrol. I don’t want to be saved. I don’t-- I don’t need it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter can feel the pain, the humiliation seething beneath the surface. He can feel her, sense her waiting for his pity so she can shove it as far from her as she can. She’s wounded, and she doesn’t want him to see it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants to tell her that he’s vulnerable too. He wants to take off the stupid mask and tell her his name, to tell her about Ben and to let her know that she’s not alone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter wants to try and save her, which is everything she can’t handle right now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>MJ crosses her arms over the goose-pimples that are rising on them, turning from him to walk back inside. She produces a key from her pocket and puts it into the door handle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“MJ.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“<em>Go</em>.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Four</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The next time Peter goes to Delmar’s, he can’t remember why. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t have a choice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The jingling of the bell makes Peter laugh as he looks up at it from where he is kneeling on the ground. It’s metal… Cold, cruel in the artificial glow of Delmar’s diner. It laughs with him as he sinks to the floor, chest pressing against the linoleum. The metal shrieks and crows like an animal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has metal, too. He has metal in his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter isn’t sure how long he lays there on the floor, listening to the dying cries of the bell. He lays there long enough to get warm, to get sticky… But if he stays anywhere too long, he gets sticky with red, and the warm is just a heated blanket tossed over a block of ice. The bell stops ringing, but the ringer inside it still jingles, waving at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can hear MJ’s voice… He knows it's hers, he won’t be fooled. It’s tired, a little bit raspy. Pretty, too. Her voice is always pretty, especially when she’s laughing. Her laugh is different from Peter’s though. His brow furrows as he tries to puzzle through the comparison.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, wait. He got it wrong. He’s not laughing, he’s crying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh my god.” The words are quiet, and Peter can hear an intake of breath from outside his blurry, black-spotted field of vision. Peter’s mechanical eyes widen and constrict, whirring rhythmically as his suit mutters something into his ears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Calling: Tony Stark…. Calling: Tony Stark…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Karen’s voice is like a lullaby to Peter, until the crackling of bad reception interrupts it. Rude, Peter thinks to himself as he watches MJ’s face dart in and out of his field of vision. He liked the lullaby.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His own intake of breath as something presses against his chest sounds like it is coming from someone else. Somewhere else. MJ’s face comes into his field of vision. It is drawn and grim, set in the expression of a combat medic. Several curls have escaped her ponytail, and Peter wants to reach for them and brush them away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is gonna hurt,” she informs him. “Hold on. I need you to hold on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything turns red.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pain arcs through Peter, originating from his chest. He feels like he is drowning. Maybe he is. He can hear screams, his own, but they are detached from him. It is like he is hearing them through the water, or maybe through a dream. The pain ebbs and surges as the pressure on his chest increases.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Peter?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The voice of Tony Stark plays through his mask, but Peter can’t respond. He’s too busy gasping for breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Peter, is that you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>MJ presses down, and Peter screams again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He isn’t sure how long he lays there, on the floor of Delmar’s diner. Every time Peter thinks it’s over, that maybe the pain is done and he can close his eyes, there is more pressure. Every so often, Peter’s eyes find MJ’s form darting in and out of view. Her hands are red… He doesn’t remember them being red. He remembers them being smudged with pencil lead and eraser shavings. He remembers gray fingerprints at the edges of all the scraps of drawings he’s collected.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe it’s paint, covering her hands and smudged at the side of her temple.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you find him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony’s voice is insistent, even though it is hazy in Peter’s ears. Is he supposed to respond? Peter feels like he is. Another answers Tony’s question instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, it’s MJ. He didn’t know they knew each other.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He stumbled here.” Her words are minced, sharp. It’s like the clipping of scissors. “I found him on the floor. I didn’t try to move him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good,” Tony murmurs. “Alright… Alright. We’re going to get him out of here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something in MJ’s voice sounds so sad and so wild at the same time. How could Tony not wait, Peter wonders? With a voice like that, he has to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is he going to be okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mm. The words are long, and they’re all being said like they’re the most important thing in the world. That’s a trick, Peter decides. They’re not important. The warm blackness at the edge of his vision is much, much more important. It’s soft, comforting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Has he been here before?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He… Comes here, sometimes.” The voices drift in and out of focus, but even so, Peter doesn’t miss the way MJ’s voice catches. “After patrol.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Peter is moved, the pain returns. He doesn’t have the energy to cry out, not anymore… Is he floating? He can hear the thrumming of engines as the cold wind rips at his fingers and toes. Metallic arms wrap around Peter as the city drops away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Damn it, kid.” Tony’s voice is tight with frustration, but the emotion is only wallpapered over panic. “I thought we were past this. If that girl hadn’t been there…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span> He’s talking about MJ. Peter is sad all of a sudden, though he can’t remember why. Did they argue? If that’s what it was, Peter needs to fix it. That’s his last thought as the darkness closes in again, finally smoothing over the pain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter is going to go into it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two dark eyes watch him from the black, pools of warm, dark fire. They sketch shadows in charcoal for him, building somewhere he can rest while they watch over him.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Five</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <span>The next time Peter goes to Delmar’s, it is against orders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony is adamant that Peter stays away from the place. It was ill-advised to go there before, he insists, especially in the suit of all things. But now that his blood has been scrubbed from the tiles, and the gang member who put a bullet in his side could have followed him there? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s out of the question.” Tony refuses to acknowledge Peter’s point that Tony has never given a damn about ‘the question’ before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spider-Man can never be seen there again; Tony is not willing to budge. Peter understands it. But what Tony doesn’t know won’t kill him, especially not if Peter manages to find a loophole.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, when the bell jingles, there is no mask or suit to cover his wince.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is early. On past visits, Peter hasn’t been to Delmar’s before at least one ‘o clock A.M. Today, he’s here at eleven-thirty. It’s a bit busier than normal, enough so that Aaron, the cook, has stepped out from the back to talk to the group of teens at the counter. Peter steps into line behind them, and Aaron shoots him a glance before calling back into the kitchen. “Em!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m coming.” Her disembodied reply is terse, and Peter finds himself catching his breath. The voice has been whispering in his head for weeks, and it’s there every time he tries to remember what happened. He needs to hear it again, this time without the horror. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When MJ steps out from the kitchen, she is fiddling with the tie on the back of her black uniform. Her eyes are puffy from lack of sleep, and her ponytail is a mess of wild curls. Her face is drawn and tense, and her lips are set in a line as she turns to face Peter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At first, Peter thinks she’s missed it. But before she is about to look away to grab a menu, she freezes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A spark begins to melt her eyes, and they begin to search him. They are timid at first, tracing his eyes. But then they begin to travel his face, picking up warmth as they do so. She studies his brow, his cheekbones. Her gaze shades in his nose, the way that his teeth lay beneath his lips. She lines his jaw and traces his cupid’s bow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When her eyes find his again, they know him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter isn’t sure how she manages to get around the counter so fast. Her arms wrap around his neck, pulling him close. Peter winces as his tender side protests, but his healing is advanced enough that it’s a reflex more than anything. He pulls her close, letting her hold him tight and just breathe for a minute. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other customers stare, and Peter can hear their whispers. He doesn’t care. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>MJ pulls away enough that she can look at him from up close. One of her hands rises as if she wants to cup his cheek, but she catches it. Peter wishes she wouldn’t. MJ studies his face again, this time more insistently. He can’t stop the little smile that this produces as he does the same to her, catching the calculating gleam in her dark eyes. She wouldn’t be MJ if she didn’t check, then double-check. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s you,” she whispers. Her gaze presses into his own. “Are you okay?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am.” He can’t help but wonder if this is real, if she’s actually allowing herself to hold him. “I couldn’t come back as…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know.” She doesn’t make him finish the sentence. “That’s why I thought I’d never see you again.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aaron brushes past the two of them, giving MJ a pointed look as he leads the customers to a booth. MJ starts, seeming to remember the diner and the menus on the counter anew. “Let’s go out back.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter nods, and then the two of them are slipping behind the counter and into the same alleyway they fought in. Peter winces at the memory as he glances at the brick walls and the dumpster. MJ follows his gaze, and apparently his train of thought as well. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought that was going to be our last conversation.” Her eyes return to his, and there is something hesitant in them for the first time. Is the memory as painful for her as it is for Peter?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me, too.” Peter bites his lip, shaking his head. “I’ve thought about it a lot, and I-- I’m sorry.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So am I.” MJ’s gaze lowers as she catches her breath. “I was embarrassed, and I just…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I didn’t listen to you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, it wasn’t that. It wasn’t that, not really.” MJ raises her gaze, and for the first time, it is vulnerable. She is disarmed. It wrenches Peter’s heart, but it’s beautiful, too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t want you to look at me like someone who needed to be saved.” Her words hang in the air, and even with Peter’s super senses, she is all he hears. He can hear the quaver in her breath, the way she holds it for a second. “I don’t want you to see me like that. I just wanted you to see me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A soft, helpless laugh escapes Peter, and MJ stiffens. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter takes a move out of MJ’s playbook now: he stares, and he doesn’t attempt to hide it. His eyes capture the way her messy wisps of hair are being tugged loose by the night breeze. He mentally catalogs the way her collar is rumpled, sticking up slightly in the back. She hasn’t bothered to put on mascara, and a little ink is smudged at the edge of her hairline. It probably was transferred there when she brushed away a curl while working on a sketch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How could I not?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>MJ audibly catches her breath. A small, proud smile begins to edge across her lips as she looks at him. Silence fills the space between them, and Peter doesn’t mind. It’s comfortable and rhythmic, the sort of quiet that comes from studying one thing for a long time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a pounding on the door behind them that causes both to jump. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“MJ, I need to get started on some of the orders.” Aaron’s voice is pointed through the diner’s back door, and Peter can’t repress a groan. MJ shoots him a look that is both exasperated and amused. “So whenever you’re done with your boy toy, that’d be great.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter listens, waiting for Aaron’s footsteps to subside before he turns to her. “I guess you’d better…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” she sighs, shaking her head. Peter watches as she straightens up, tucking away a few strands of hair and grabbing for her pen and notepad. “Goodnight, then.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, wait.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>MJ pauses in her walk to the door. Peter can’t stop his stupid grin as she looks at him over her shoulder. “I’m Peter, by the way. Peter Parker.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever.” MJ tries to roll her eyes, but her flustered smile isn’t something that can be so easily disregarded. “Goodnight, Peter.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s Peter’s turn to start walking away, but he can hear her behind him in the alley, not moving. Before he steps onto the sidewalk, Peter glances back at her, raising an eyebrow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>MJ’s eyes are ready for his, and they catch him immediately. “Hey. I want you to promise me something.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?” Peter’s heart skips a beat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want to see Spider-Man around here anymore.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter’s face falls before he can try to hide it. MJ blinks, and then a smirk plays at the corner of her mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I only want to see Peter Parker.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter knows his expression is probably ridiculous right now, which is only verified by the way MJ rolls her eyes. If he didn’t know better, though, he might think she was blushing as the orange light of the streetlamps crosses her face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re an idiot.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I am,” Peter agrees, shrugging. “‘Night, MJ.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bye.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s stupid, and it’s ridiculously cliche. But Peter can’t help the way he lingers in the alley after she’s gone back inside, letting his heart race as he replays their interaction. When he finally manages to walk away, it’s with a spring in his step as his fist pumps the empty air.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. ...+ 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Tonight, Peter is going to Delmar’s to break his promise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter has never swung faster between the buildings of Queens than he is now, so quickly that he runs the risk of not having time to shoot his next web. The city hurtles by down below, but Peter isn’t focusing on any of that. His eyes focus ahead, desperately searching for the corner that he knows is a bit too far away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How much farther, Karen?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Peter, your heart rate has risen to-” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How much farther?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The suit’s AI is quiet for half a second as it calculates, but it feels like hours. Every second Peter is waiting is a second he is not there and a second she is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re two miles away from Delmar’s.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter curses under his breath as he increases his speed, ricocheting through the darkness like a bullet. He should have known… He should have been watching. The burglaries have been edging around Delmar’s for months, but Peter didn’t think they would focus on the diner. In the past, all the burglar’s targets have been closed for the night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Delmar’s is always, always open, and that means that MJ is there with the thief. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“On your right.” Karen’s warning jars Peter out of his thoughts. She’s right; Peter is coming upon Delmar’s. He didn’t notice because the storefront is dark… The lights are off. The lights are never off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s too late. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Desperation surges through Peter as he lands atop the building and climbs down the side. He can’t be hasty… He has to be smart. There’s still a chance she’s in there. MJ is smart; maybe she’s managed to hide.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter’s eyes seize upon the open kitchen window, and a soft breath leaves him. She’s done better than that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s given him a way in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter is quiet as he slips in through the entryway, holding his breath. He scans the darkness with sharp eyes, listening as hard as he can. At first, he hears a sound that makes him sick: silence. There haven’t been any casualties at the previous burglaries, but that doesn’t mean there won’t be any. People do crazy things when they feel like they’re out of options. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Please, please don’t let MJ be the collateral damage in someone else’s crazy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter’s prayer is answered after a moment when he hears the wild thrumming of a heartbeat. It is furious, beating arrhythmically in the quiet. It reminds him of the furious flapping of a bird. He nearly forgets himself and lets out a breath, but Peter is cautious. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The diner is dark. Shadows cloak everything, but Peter’s eyes are sharp enough that he can still see. He scans the entire place, letting no corner go unsearched with his super-senses. But there is nothing… No one. Nothing appears disturbed, not even the register. Why, then, did Peter get the blip on his radar from Ned that there had been an interrupted 911 tip about the burglar?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All that is forgotten when Peter spots her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>MJ huddles behind the counter, her back pressed to the wall. Her eyes lock on Peter, and they follow him as he crawls into the room, adhered to the ceiling. Peter takes one last look around the room, confirming that it is empty before he speaks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“MJ.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her eyes widen, and she shakes her head vehemently, placing a finger to her lips. Peter’s eyes narrow in confusion as he hops down from the ceiling, landing in front of the counter. “MJ, there’s no one here. Are you oka-” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a sound of webbing from behind Peter, and he barely has time to start turning before two invisible feet have kicked him in the back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter goes flying across Delmar’s, crashing into a pair of mismatched chairs and a table. The metal arms and legs screech as they slide across the floor, and it takes Peter a second to force air back into his lungs. He leaps to his feet, but that doesn’t do much good. Peter can hear it now: what he thought was one frantic, wild pulse was two layered over one another. He can hear the muscles, the movement of cloth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Peter can’t see his assailant. The extra mental effort it takes to locate them gives them time to strike again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter’s tingling senses urge him to move his head to the side just as an invisible fist swings his way. He is not fast enough to catch it. Peter shoots a taser web from his fingertips, but the invisible attacker grips his arm and aims it at the counter, where it latches to the metal top. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“MJ!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t need to shout for her; she was already aware that she might be in danger. Still, she barely manages to get out of the way of the countertop before electricity arcs down the metal. Glasses and metal salt-and-pepper holders shot through the air like shocking shrapnel. One of the windows shatters, spraying glass shards. There is an intake of breath; one of the pieces must have cut Peter’s assailant because a few droplets of blood materialize in the air. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a clue about where Peter can strike, but the webbing misses as the attacker retreats, drawing back. Peter’s web sticks to the broken window, patching over part of the cracked mess. He can’t tell where the enemy has gone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least, he can’t tell until MJ is dragged up from the ground by invisible hands and a gun materializes at her temple. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The cry tears itself from his lips as Peter stands, taking a step forward. This proves to be the wrong move as the weapon presses further against her head, causing MJ to take a sharp breath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop, Peter.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her words are deadly calm, sharp. The drunken man at the diner flashes through Peter’s mind, and the words loop over one another in his mind. There is no trembling in her voice now, and there is no fear in her gaze. Her eyes lock on his, and somehow they are calm in the middle of the storm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least someone is calm. Peter is shaking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>MJ draws a breath, and she raises a hand to rest on the invisible arm that is wrapped around her windpipe. Whoever it is is shorter than her, Peter realizes; she is being forced to hunch. His mind grasps at straws, trying to find anything he could use to his advantage. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t come any closer,” MJ murmurs. Her command is quiet, assured. “Don’t hurt them.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The gun stiffens at her temple as she rests her fingers on the arm around her neck, and Peter’s heart leaps to his throat as he thinks it might fire. But it doesn’t… Not even as MJ’s finger lightly strokes the invisible flesh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t come here to hurt me,” she whispers, her eyes flickering up to where she thinks her assailant's head might be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You came for what is in the cash register, which I can give you if you want.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The gun dips against MJ’s head, and though it doesn’t fall, Peter seizes on the wild spark of hope that shoots through him. MJ continues to talk, her eyes straining to look at whoever is behind her. Each word is even, measured… It is calming in the dark. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I get it. I’ve thought about doing the same thing you are right now.” Peter’s throat grows painful with a lump as he listens to the empathy in her voice, the way that she reaches out for the invisible robber with words. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve been where you are. The system is screwing you over, and there’s no way to float out of it. I wasn’t supposed to be here tonight… Aaron told me not to come in, that Cindy was coming to cover me. But she wasn’t. You were supposed to have an easy job, to be here and gone before anyone was any wiser. Cindy would come ten minutes later as Aaron came, and then you would be gone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter purses his lips as she takes a breath and lets it out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I didn’t. So now you have a choice.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The gun is trembling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can trust that I’ll give you the money and leave. I didn’t see your face, and neither did my friend Spider-Man. He won’t follow you, will he?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t.” Peter’s voice makes him feel sick. It’s the voice of a ghost, someone already haunted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I know it feels like you can’t trust anyone. I don’t.” MJ’s voice breaks as she whispers the words. “I don’t trust anyone but him.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter’s muscles constrict as he clenches his fists. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you could shoot me. But if you do that… Well. He has a reason to follow you, and there’s a body. The police will look for you, and they’ll see the inconsistency in Cindy’s story. Aaron, however you know him, will be caught. And then you’ll be implicated if you’re tied to him in any way.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>MJ is doing what she’s meant to: she is sketching out a story, putting strong, bold strokes on the impossibility of the future. She is sketching profiles, the faces of what might be. Right now, the invisible figure's ragged breathing is nearing hyperventilation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The high pitch of the breathing makes Peter think it’s a kid. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Or you could put down the gun, stop all this. I won’t say anything.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How do I know that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The shaky, desperate voice can’t belong to anyone older than fourteen. Peter’s heart wrenches in his chest with pity. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>MJ squeezes the kid’s arm around her throat, and her eyes hold the emotion that is currently bringing tears to Peter’s eyes. She is quiet for a moment as she turns her head up, and the invisible arm around her chin lets her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because I’m like you,” she whispers, bringing her other hand up. She lets it relax, open, by the hand that must be holding the gun. She wants him to drop it, to take it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And so is he.” MJ’s eyes move to Peter, and they lock on him. “He’s young, too. He’s a kid with abilities that he didn’t understand, and he knows what it’s like to be a mutant. He knows how to make those powers into something that will help people like us, not hurt them.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s telling the truth.” Peter’s words are stronger now as he looks into the empty air above MJ’s head. “She always does. This doesn’t have to end with you or someone you love hurt. I’ll let the police know it was another burglary once you’re gone, but that I didn’t get here until after. I haven’t been able to get you before, and I won’t go looking unless there’s another robbery.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter purses his lips, reaching to take off his mask. He stares into the empty air, a kid with a mess of flattened curls and the face of a college freshman. He knows there are tears in his eyes, and he feels his mouth tightening as he forces the words out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please let her go.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, the gun presses harder against MJ’s temple. She squeezes her eyes shut, and her breath hitches in her throat as she waits for the shot. Peter thinks he might never breathe again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The heavy weapon hits the floor, and MJ lets out a sob. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The invisible arm leaves MJ’s throat, and she falls to her hands and knees. Her breathing is heavy, but for once Peter is not looking at her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, he watches as a boy, lanky and lean with wild hair and eyes, materializes into the air. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s wearing all black, and coupled with his dark skin it makes him appear to be a shadow behind MJ. But Peter can see the fear in the young eyes, the way his body is shaking. He can see the tears in the boy’s eyes as he begins to shake his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter steps towards MJ, kneeling beside her and reaching for her. She grips him fiercely, burying her head in the crook of his neck, and Peter’s own hold on her is like a vice as he looks up at the kid. For a moment, he sees the gun pressed to her temple again in the kid’s hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay.” Peter offers the young kid a crooked, strained smile as MJ exhales against his neck, exhausted. Peter blinks once, then twice, and he begins to help her to her feet. MJ accepts is help. When she pulls away from him there are a few streaks down her cheeks that the orange light through the window sets on fire. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m MJ,” she murmurs, finally releasing Peter. He is a little less inclined to let her go, but he does so anyway as she steps toward the kid, offering her hand. It shakes slightly, but she doesn’t rescind the offer of a shake as she straightens up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m Miles.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter barely hears the whisper as the two shake hands, and then he hears the kid choke down a sob. “I’m sorry.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s MJ’s turn to pull the boy close this time. She hugs him ferociously, and there is something protective in the way she sets her chin as she holds his skinny, underfed frame. Peter hears a quiet stream of murmuring. It takes a second for him to realize that Miles is apologizing over and over again against MJ’s sternum. She lowers her head to whisper forgiveness against his hair, taking the opportunity to kick the gun. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter lets his head hang low, walking across the glass-covered floor to the discarded weapon. He kneels over to pick it up, emptying the chamber for good measure before he lets it fall limp in his fingers at his side. Across from MJ, Peter can see that the kid is wearing the black t-shirt inside out. In the faint light, he thinks he can see the printed lettering of a school logo showing through from the other side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>MJ’s eyes rise to Peter’s as she whispers against Miles’s skull. Her words do not stop, and she whispers them with a ferocity that convinces Peter they are true. As his eyes meet hers, it is his turn to capture the moment. He takes in the way her lashes are clumped from tears, the way her nose runs and she doesn’t care enough to stop soothing Miles’ conscience. He sees the way her trembling hands clutch the adolescent’s shoulder blades, like she is afraid he will fade before she has had the chance to assure him it'll be okay. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter isn’t sure how, but he knows it will be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>From over Miles’s shoulder, Peter takes one step closer, than another. Then, when he has set the gun down on the counter, Peter takes both of them in his arms so Miles is surrounded from all sides. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hand finds MJ’s against Miles’s back, and their fingers tangle together. Peter isn’t sure how long they stay that way, listening to the faint sound of approaching sirens. He’s sure of one thing, though. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tonight, the hero isn't a red and blue vigilante. Tonight, it is an artist that saved a terrified kid, and she didn’t need anything but the truth to do it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spider-Man may be the savior of Queens, but MJ doesn't need a suit or mask to be Peter's hero.</span>
</p>
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